Drawing A Slow Circle
by tielan
Summary: Mirrim knows entirely too much about what's going on in the weyr; and nothing about what's going on in T'gellan's mind.


**NOTES**: Written for a ficathon entry, and it din't quite go as far as I wanted it to go. Still, there may be a second part coming someday. I have notes. (Which may or may not mean anything.)

**Drawing A Slow Circle**

The weyr is still only half-awake and full of murmurs when T'gellan notices the new face among the women of the Lower Caverns. Pretty in a young kind of way – maybe fifteen or sixteen Turns – although she looks slightly cross at P'ranal when he sneaks an extra piece of fruit.

"You've already got two pieces!"

The brown rider opens his eyes wide and innocent at her. "One of them's for my weyrmate, I swear by the first shell!"

The girl isn't having a bit of it, but one of the other women of the Lower Caverns pauses by and rolls her eyes. "P'ranal, get on with you and stop holding things up. Mirrim, just let the riders take what they want. It's not as though we're short on tithes anymore…"

Mirrim huffs, blowing dark strands of hair out of her face and glaring at T'gellan like he's responsible for P'ranal's greed or her telling off, and not just standing there waiting for his bowl of porridge to be served.

He smiles his most charming smile – the one that works on all the holder girls. "I haven't met you yet," he says by way of sweetening her up. "I'm T'gellan."

"I know." Mirrim fills his bowl with brisk efficiency, ignoring the smile, then raps his bowl with her ladle. "Move along, you're holding up the line."

It's not until he's sitting down with the other riders that T'gellan remembers she was one of the littles running about the weyr caverns back when he first Impressed Monarth. Of course she knows who he is. She was fostered with Brekke right about the same time and went to Southern before going up to High Reaches…was it only a week ago?

So much has happened since then.

"Pretty bit of a thing, isn't she?" V'niron breaks into T'gellan's thoughts, seeing his glance back at the serving line. "Weyrbred, too."

Discomforted at the leering note in the wing-second's voice – V'niron is nearly thirty, and Mirrim can't be much more than half that – T'gellan shrugs. "There are plenty of prettier girls out there."

* * *

Mirrim knows weyr-life like she knows her own hand. Dragonmen to be fed and dragons to be cared for. Linens and clothes to be washed, and children to be entertained. Healing for the injured, gossip for the hearth, and the regular pattern of Threadfall.

New, however, is the interest from the riders.

She was just a child when she left Benden to go to Southern Weyr with Brekke. And she was still considered too young while she was at Southern and High Reaches – Brekke's fosterling.

Now, however, Brekke shares F'nor's weyr, and Mirrim is down in the Lower Caverns with the other women of the weyr. She's weyrbred, so it's no scandal when the women of the weyr go with the riders at night. It _is_ something of a shock the first time the riders tease _her_ with good humour and ripe interest. But she's not interested in any of them, and after a few pithy retorts, _most _of them give up.

F'nor stops her one evening as she's making her way back across the Bowl from the Council Room where she was sent with food and drinks for the weyrleaders' guests. "Mirrim, do I need to say something to V'niron?"

"No," she assures him, surprised and a little touched by his concern. "I'm quite capable of dealing with him."

"Oh, _I_ know that." F'nor grins broadly as he turns to head up to the meeting. "But Brekke asked me to check and so I have."

He would have anyway, Mirrim knows. F'nor is that kind of man, and she appreciates the offer, even if she's going to manage V'niron herself.

Involved in her own thoughts on how to deal with the persistent brown rider, Mirrim doesn't notice footsteps on the sand behind her until there's a tap on her shoulder – and no-one there when she turns.

T'gellan laughs from her other side. "Someone's not paying attention. Thinking takes a lot of effort does it?"

"It's your _exalted_ presence, T'gellan." Mirrim affects the syrupy-sweet voice of Elimma, one of the women who was recently in T'gellan's bed. "Every thought just _flies_ out of my head when you're near!"

He sighs. "Shells! Where'd you hear about that?"

"You should know there's nothing secret in the Lower Caverns, T'gellan. Or, if there is, it's not secret for long." Mirrim grins up at him. He's too handsome, too kind, and too charming for his own good. "Not going to forswear all others for her undying devotion?"

"I'd sooner swear undying devotion to you," he retorts.

* * *

T'gellan is almost awake by the time Monarth deposits him in the Bowl, although his head still rings with the wine he drank last night to douse the disappointment of the failed flight. He doesn't have to be up – nobody would fault him for staying abed this morning, but experience with wine-head tells him it's better to follow his usual routines – food and care of Monarth and drills with his wing.

"Ho, T'gellan!" The call echoes from across the bowl and he turns and stares. Blue Borath lands lightly on the sands some dragonlengths beyond him, carrying not only his rider W'kin, but also Mirrim. "Condolences on losing the flight yesterday."

He must manage a coherent reply because W'kin nods at him and grins at Mirrim before taking his dragon off to the feeding grounds. He just can't remember what he said.

T'gellan waits for Mirrim to walk over to him, a little slower than her usual stride although she's not showing any signs of pain. And what does he know, anyway? It might not have been her first time, and even if it was, W'kin is said to be a generous lover, more than capable of giving pleasure to an inexperienced girl.

Mirrim meets his gaze and her chin lifts, as though challenging him to say anything. Then she frowns. "You look dreadful, T'gellan."

Laughter doesn't quite match what he's feeling right now – he's not sure what he's feeling right now – but her words and her delivery are so very _Mirrim_ that he can't quite help the rising bubble of mirth. Then a couple of dragonets squeal at something being done to them, their protests echoing across the bowl.

"I _feel_ dreadful," he tells her with a wince. "How about you?"

"I'm fine." She turns her head as something squalls, and the dark mass of her hair shifts, slippery and loose instead of in its usual binding. T'gellan has the sudden desire to reach out and run his fingers through it.

He knows better than to do so, though.

* * *

"Right, well, that's the last of it—" Mirrim sits back on her haunches and scrubs the back of her hand across her forehead to scratch an itch – loose hairs sticking to her face after the exertions of the morning.

Leaning against the wall, his old shirt patched to his body by sweat, T'gellan laughs. "You've just smeared this line of dust up your face."

She wrinkles her nose and shrugs. "There's no-one to see me here but you, and you look just as bad. You know, I'd never have thought that anything at Benden could be worse than things were at High Reaches after those Oldtimers vacated the weyr, but this comes pretty close."

"And you were going to do this yourself," he mutters, looking around the room with its boxes of musting stores. "So what's next? Back to Manora to report?"

"And have a wash and something to eat," she says, trying to get to her feet and wobbling a little. T'gellan hauls her up, his hands warm on hers. "Thanks for the offer of help – even if I know you're just trying to avoid Amilia."

He makes a noise of annoyance in his throat, his hands tightening on hers. "What gave you that idea?"

"The look on her face when you walked into the living caverns, and the look on your face when you realised I was giving you a way to avoid her. Well? Isn't it true?"

He drapes an arm over her shoulder, tucking her under his arm as they make their way to the door. "You, my dear girl, know entirely too much about what's going on in this weyr. And not half enough."

His touch warms her insides, and Mirrim lets him hold her there until they reach the frequented parts of the weyr tunnels, even though she should know better.

* * *

T'gellan finds Mirrim sitting with Path and her fire-lizards outside the weyrling barracks as the sun sets over the Benden mountain range. She looks up, her Hatching finery crumpled and dusty, but her eyes are still luminous with the joy of Impression.

"I never thought—I mean, I have Tolly and Reppa and Lok but I never imagined—" She's scratching Path's eyelids, and the dragonet is crooning soft encouragement at her. "She's beautiful."

"Yes, she is." He feels Monarth's presence in his mind, the warm pleasure of his dragon at a good Hatching. "Have the Weyrleaders spoken to you?"

"Oh yes—I mean, there'll have to be some changes to the weyrling barracks, and I won't be able to work in the lower caverns anymore—" Mirrim looks up at him, and the bright and busy mask she uses to cover her feelings is completely gone, shed like the egg from which Path hatched. "But Path's a fighting dragon, and just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't fight Thread, too."

T'gellan grins in spite of the lump in his throat, the ache in his chest. "The two of you are well-matched," he tells her in absolute truth and dares to push back a strand of hair that's slipped from the blue ribbon that bound it back for most of the day. "I'd have you in my wing any day."

The brilliancy of her smile clenches something in his gut, and he leaves her and Path to their bonding time, calling Monarth down to carry him up to their weyr before putting on wherhide to do some high flying.

He glances down at the barracks as Monarth launches from their ledge and smiles at his own thwarted plans.

In truth, T'gellan had intended to have Mirrim in his bed tonight – a slow and thorough seduction after she'd cleaned up and calmed down from the fuss of the Hatching. She's not entirely immune to him – she likes him, at least, and if it's not what he wants, it's a start.

Only…she's a weyrling now, off-limits until her dragon is mature, and even then, once Path rises, there'll be other riders to contend with.

_Then we will fly better and higher and faster than them,_ Monarth murmurs as they catch the updrafts over the lip of the bowl and soar out into the sky_. And then they'll be ours._


End file.
